The Tarrant Rose

by Veronica Heley

  “What? Leave the field of battle to solve Philip’s matrimonial problems? What nonsense. Tell him to beat her. That’s what my father used to do when she got out of hand.”

  “I never noticed that a beating improved Sophia’s temper in the old days, and I don’t think Philip is the man to beat his wife. Promise me you will think over what I have said. We have other men able to take your place here, but we cannot replace Philip.”

  Jasper laughed, to hide his hurt. What? Was he of less account than a man who hid behind a desk in London? A man who avoided a duel with Sir John, because it was politically inexpedient?

  “I will think about it,” he lied, “and send you a letter with my decision.”

  Sophia, Countess of Rame, strode across her daintily-furnished drawing-room in a temper. Her silken skirts caught the leg of a fragile table, and it overturned. “Damn!” she cried, and jerked her silk free. She did not like the room, with its countless mirrors, each reflecting her angry face, and still less did she like the owner of all this magnificence.

  “He tricked me!” she said. “I wondered why everyone was looking at me and then nodding to each other, knowingly. Lady Millicent—the cat!—told me why this morning. Everyone thinks I’m pregnant, because I am now going about with a natural, instead of a pinched-in waistline! Philip made such a point of saying that tight-lacing was bad for my health, and now … oh, I could kill him!”

  “Could you really, dear?” Miss Nan placidly sewed away by the window. “Well, it’s your own fault if you’re not pregnant, isn’t it?”

  “Oh!” Sophia stamped her foot, and then ran to her aunt’s side and sank to her knees, burying her hot face in her aunt’s skirts. “How is Thomas?” she asked, at last. “The doctor wouldn’t let me in to see him last night or today.”

  “Very patient. He knows he’s dying, but he’s so tired that he doesn’t mind. We do what we can for him, Philip, and Mr. Denbigh and I.”

  “Everyone but me. Since I am not pregnant, I don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed in his room.” Miss Nan said nothing to that, but continued to sew. Sophia fingered the hem of her aunt’s dress. “Do you know what Lady Millicent told me today, Aunt? She said that that woman in St. James’ Street whom Philip visits is going to bear his child in the spring. It’s not fair, is it? He’s put me in an impossible position. He’s proved he can sire children, and now he’s made everyone think I’m pregnant, and I’m not, and when people realize that I’m not, they’re going to point the finger at me and say I’m barren, and that he ought to get rid of me.”

  Miss Nan made a sound half way between a cough and a hiccup. “Really, dear? Then you’d better change your tactics, hadn’t you?”

  Sophia wriggled, but did not reply.

  “For a start,” said Miss Nan, “you’d better stop seeing so much of Mr. Dalby and Sir John. Then you might do something to make this house more comfortable for Philip, and arrange for food to be available at any hour that he comes in, cold and tired and hungry.”

  “It’s his own fault if he’s not here for meals.”

  “He is a very busy man. He has handed over the management of the household to you. I cannot look after the house and manage the sickroom as well.”

  “I don’t see why he has to pretend he’s so busy now. He’s given his speech, and been heartily laughed at for a fool.”

  “Sophia!”

  “Well, it’s true,” said Sophia, in a muffled tone. “Everyone says so.”

  “By ‘everyone,’ you mean Sir John and Sir Benjamin and suchlike fribbles. They know nothing of politics. Men of substance—yes, and the newspapers, too—reported on his speech respectfully. He is not a natural orator, I agree. He found making a speech in public a great trial, but it had to be done and he did it. Far from making a fool of himself, I am reliably informed that the speech did him a great deal of good politically. As for Sir John, old friend though he is, I am become almost ashamed of him. His jealousy of Philip leads him into saying the wildest things. Was it he who told you of Mrs. O’Dell?”

  Sophia lifted her shoulders. “Perhaps. Is that her name? An Irish adventuress, I suppose. They say she is fat and forty. What Philip can see in her, I don’t know.”

  “A sympathetic personality, I suppose. You don’t exactly make him welcome when you see him, do you?”

  “Ought I to do so? A man who spends his days locked in his library and toad-eating the King, and his nights in another woman’s arms?”

  Miss Nan smiled. “I must say, I would like to see Philip toad-eating anyone. Child, child! Whose words are you quoting? You don’t really believe them, do you? Philip has been occupied with arrangements for celebrating the King’s birthday. I am sure he would have been delighted to tell you about his work, if you had asked. As for Mrs. O’Dell, rumor lies if it says she is his mistress. Now why don’t you ask him to spend an evening with you?”

  “I’d sooner die,” said Sophia through her teeth. “Why, he’s made it clear he thinks I told everyone the truth about his playing at being a soldier.”

  “Didn’t you, dear? You looked so guilty when he spoke of it that …”

  “I told Marjorie, that’s all. Who else did I see that week? I was kept in bed, as you know, and fed on pap until I could have screamed. I had no opportunity of telling anyone else. Admit it! I only told Marjorie because I thought it would make her see Philip for what he really is, a double-dealing. …”

  Miss Nan raised her hand sharply. Sophia stopped. Noiselessly, Miss Nan crept to the door, and pulled it open. There was a scuffling sound outside on the landing.

  “Who was that?” asked Sophia, staring. “Someone was listening to us?”

  “Perhaps that was how the tale got about,” said Miss Nan, frowning. “She was too quick for me. I only saw a woman’s skirt as she whisked around the corner. I think I’d better mention it to Philip.”

  “Will you tell him that it was not I who told Sir John they were only playing at being soldiers?”

  “If I am right, and there is a spy in the household, then Sir John would not have known, if you had kept your mouth shut. But I will do what I can for you, if you in turn will be kinder to Philip.”

  “Perhaps I will; perhaps I won’t.” The Countess of Rame inspected her image in the mirror over the fireplace. “I can’t make up my mind whether to powder my hair or not, when I sit for my portrait. What do you think?”

  For once, the Earl and his Countess were to dine and go on to a ball together. Philip was about to go up to his room to dress, when a messenger brought in an urgent dispatch from ‘David Vere.’ The rebels had crossed the Esk into England on November 8th. By riding hard, Jasper had reached Carlisle ahead of them, but had nothing but bad news to report. A certain Captain Durand had been sent from London to take charge of the city’s defenses for the Crown, but although he was by no means incompetent, he could not reverse the neglect of years in the short space of time left to him. Once upon a time, Carlisle had been a well fortified Border town, but the recent period of prosperity and the union with Scotland had made it seem unnecessary to keep the city’s defenses in good repair. The walls were crumbling, and although there were guns in the castle, children had been allowed to play on and around them, and in consequence certain vital components were conspicuous by their absence. Captain Durand was not young, but he had driven himself and everyone else hard in his efforts to put the city into a state of defense, hampered by inertia on the part of the inhabitants of Carlisle. The local militia, hurriedly called together, were as badly armed and trained as the Jacobites and far less enthusiastic about fighting. The soldiers on garrison duty were superannuated invalids who had fought under Marlborough and Eugene in the days of Good Queen Anne, and were either halt, blind or lame. In short, if the Pretender’s spy system were anything like as good as the Government’s, Carlisle was as good as lost, unless. …

  “Bad news?” asked Mr. Denbigh, hurrying into the library. “I heard that another dispatch had arrived.”

/>   “Bad news,” confirmed Philip. “I must take this to Mr. Stone at once. If we can get Wade moving in time, then we can save Carlisle. If not, the city is lost.”

  “My God! Carlisle? One hardly credits that an English city can be conquered. I can hardly believe it. Yes, yes; you must go. But … were you not going out with the Countess this evening?”

  Philip debated with himself whether he might safely entrust the dispatch to someone else to deliver, but decided against doing so. Mr. Stone might be easily run to earth, or he might not. If the Duke of Newcastle were to get the dispatch straight away, action might or might not be taken; the probability was that nothing would be done, while the Duke worried the problem around for a day or so. If Mr. Carramine had returned from the north … but he had not. No, there was nothing for it, but that Philip must go.

  “I suppose the fate of Carlisle is of more importance than my attendance at a ball,” said he, fingering the note which Jasper had enclosed with his dispatch. Marjorie Bladen was to be at the ball tonight. It was a thousand pities that Sophia was no longer on good terms with the girl. He must find some means of getting Jasper’s note to Marjorie tomorrow, but he could not possibly call at Sir John’s lodgings. If only Sophia could be trusted. …

  It was Martinmas Saturday, November 9th. The town woke early, not because the Jacobites were said to be in the vicinity, but because it was a feast day and a market day, and the citizens of Carlisle saw no reason why business should not go on as usual. The country-folk trooped to town as usual; it did not occur to them that the Jacobite army might use the same roads.

  Some of the clergy had climbed the cathedral tower with a spyglass to see what there was to be seen. They were pleasantly excited, but not unduly worried by the approach of the Jacobites. It was all in the nature of a holiday treat to them, for General Wade was known to be nearby to protect them from harm.

  Jasper climbed the tower, too, and asked permission to join the clergy. He was so obviously a gentleman—though judging by his clothes, one in poor circumstances—that they did not object. Besides, a small party of mounted Jacobites was coming into view, pushing through the countryfolk on their way to market. The clergy told each other that they’d soon see some action, but after a while this scouting party withdrew. Jasper, who had brought his own glass with him, looked grim. From his vantage point he could appreciate how hard Captain Durand’s task was. If the Jacobites chose to march into Carlisle through the countryfolk, then how could the captain bring his guns—those that were working—to bear on the rebels? It was a farcical situation, but one with sinister undertones, as the men of Carlisle would eventually discover.

  After a while Jasper left the tower and wandered through the town. He knew he was being reckless, and he did not care. His instructions had been clear enough; he was to glean information at second-hand from reliable Whig gentry, and report daily at pre-arranged rendezvous where Mr. Dodge or one of his team would be waiting to collect his dispatches. Philip had forbidden Jasper to risk personal encounters with any more Jacobites. If Jasper were caught and his identity established, or even if he were brought face to face with one of the rebels he had met in Edinburgh, then he would be hanged as a spy.

  Unfortunately, the love of adventure which had bedevilled the Tarrants from time immemorial beckoned Jasper on. He knew perfectly well that he ought to get out of Carlisle before the Jacobites entered, but he simply could not tear himself away.

  When he was weary he made his way to the outskirts of the city, collected his horse from the inn at which it had been stabled, and ambled out into the country. He was to rendezvous that night at a hedge tavern some five miles south of Carlisle, but if he took the long way round, he might see something of the Jacobite army before he finished his report. Carlisle was still safe, but aware now of its danger. No lights were to be lit in the streets that night, but a candle was to be put in the window of the rooms next the street. The city gates closed for the night. Jasper raised his head and sniffed. There was a clammy feel to the air. There would probably be a fog before long. He rode on, his pistol loose in its holster, and his ears stretched for movement. …

  A bulky form rode out of the dark towards him, and the two horses reared. There was a white cockade in the hat worn by the newcomer, so he must be a Jacobite; and well-mounted, so he must be an officer.

  He swore at Jasper, and his accent was Scots.

  Jasper apologized, all meek servitude. He managed a reasonable version of the local accent, which apparently was good enough to deceive the newcomer, for he demanded directions to the seat of the Barrymores, a local family of great influence and Jacobite sympathies.

  Jasper proceeded to give lengthy and involved instructions, although he had only the slightest idea where the Barrymores were to be found. The Jacobite lost patience with Jasper’s mumbling. He was in a hurry, he announced, and would pay Jasper well if he would deliver a letter to the Barrymores for him. Jasper could hardly believe his luck. The Jacobite turned his horse, and held out the letter and a coin. Jasper moved nearer to take them, and in so doing his face and form became lit by the distant glow of the city behind them.

  “Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?” asked the Jacobite, still retaining the letter.

  “I don’t think so,” said Jasper, forgetting to speak in dialect. He could not recall seeing the officer before, but the latter now appeared to regret the bargain he had just made. He frowned, and said perhaps it would be better if Jasper were to guide him to the Barrymores’ place, even though it meant a further delay. Now Jasper was in a quandary. He did not know the way, and once the Jacobite realized that he had been duped. …

  Jasper leaned forward, snatched the letter, and dug his spurs into his horse. The Jacobite was facing the wrong way, and had to turn his horse to pursue. Jasper’s horse was a good one, and swift, and easily outpaced the horse on which the Jacobite was riding. The darkness swallowed the Jacobite, and Jasper turned his horse in the direction of his rendezvous with Mr. Dodge.

  Together they eased the seal off the letter and spread it out on the table. It was a call to arms, penned by the Pretender to Lord Barrymore.

  . … This is to acquaint you with the success we have had since our arrival in Scotland, and how far we are advanced without repulse. We are now a numerous army, and are laying siege to Carlisle this day. After this we intend to take our route straight to London, and if things answer our expectations, we design to be in Cheshire before the 24th instant. Then I hope you and all my friends in that county will be ready to join us, for now is the time or never.

  Adieu. Charles P.R.

  “Pretty good,” commented Mr. Dodge. “That’ll take my lord Barrymore to the Tower, that will. He’ll look pleasant, when his head’s lodged on a spike.”

  “No need for that,” said Jasper. “Our lord and master in London made me memorize details of the Jacobite families I might encounter in my travels. I seem to remember that while Barrymore himself is a Tory and Jacobite sympathizer, the son is an ardent Whig and Hanoverian. We’ll arrange to have this letter delivered to the son—after we’ve taken a copy of it, of course.”

  “But …”

  “We don’t really want any more Jacobites swelling the ranks of the Pretender’s Army, do we? Barrymore’s son will probably burn the letter. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over. I’m sure you agree?”

  “Then you’d better keep out of reach of the Jacobites, my young cockerel. You’re crowing too loudly for my taste nowadays. It’s all very well to have plenty of courage, but a spice of fear might slow you down. A man who takes avoidable risks in our trade doesn’t live to collect his pension.”

  “Oh, I’ve a charmed life,” said Jasper. “What news of Wade?”

  “The blithering old hen is stopping where he is, waiting for reinforcements to arrive by sea. I doubt he’ll move before Christmas.”

  “Then Carlisle is lost. I suppose there is only one route which the Pretender can take, if he inten
ds to press on to London?”

  “So Carlisle has fallen.” Philip seated himself wearily in the chair which had tacitly become ‘his’ in Miss Nan’s sanctum, and stretched out his long legs. “His Majesty is furious, of course. There was a christening party today at St. James’—yet another of the Prince’s offspring—the cooks had outdone themselves and created a centerpiece for the table in the likeness of Carlisle Castle. All the guests pelted it with sugarplums, to show their contempt for a city that could allow itself to be taken so easily. Yet I have some sympathy for the men of Carlisle. They were ill-equipped, practically defenseless, and besieged by what must have seemed to them to be an overwhelming Army, who were making scaling ladders and throwing up entrenchments … all very alarming to a generation who have never known war in England. Then Wade sends them a message that he won’t be coming to relieve them, after all, but will wait for the Pretender in Lancashire. They say Durand was like a hen who’d had her neck wrung, dashing hither and yon, squawking. His garrison didn’t feel like standing a siege, knowing how poorly they were equipped. Some of them went over the Castle walls, and some forced open the gates which Durand had ordered closed. There was confusion in the streets, with civilians mixed up with rebels. As for the militia: hopeless! They didn’t want to fight at all. If there had been a full garrison of trained soldiers in Carlisle, it might have been a different story, or if Durand had been appointed two months earlier. … The Stuart boy, having learned his lesson in Edinburgh when he gained the town but was unable to take the Castle demanded that Carlisle surrender the Castle together with the town. And so it was.”